An Archer's Tale
by AlbertaRose
Summary: A look into the life of one Clint Barton and what may have led him to be in the Avengers. Warnings for torture, sex, language, abuse, death, etc. Inspired by the Wikipage, but no further than that.
1. Chapter 1

AN – Although inspired by the events on his wiki page, this fic is a stab at what led Barton to be the man he is in the 2012 avenger movie. I have not read the comics, nor am I particularly inclined to. This is me having fun with my second favorite character in the Avengers, as he did not get a movie introduction, showing how he became who he is.

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Chapter 1

Clint Barton was four years old the first time he fired a bow and arrow. It was one of those cheap ones you bought at the dollarstore, made of bright orange plastic with suction cups on the end of five neon yellow arrows. His mother had taken him and his brother Barney to the Dollarstore of the sleepy Iowa town after going grocery shopping and allowed them to each pick one toy. Barney had gone for a set of plastic money. Clint had picked his first bow and arrows. Upon getting home, his parents had set up a target against a window and he had spent the entire afternoon shooting and retreiving. Before bedtime came, Clint was able to hit the bullseye consistantly.

That night, his mother tucked him into bed, and he could not shut up about his new toy. She had given him a smile and a kiss, and turned off his light. It was the last time he had ever seen her.

According to his older brother, Mr and Mrs Barton died in a car crash that night. Clint may have been young but he knew better. He had heard the screams that night. He had heard the struggles. And his parents had not gone out that night. The fact that their bodies were found in the family car in a ditch three miles from the house seemed to be the only information relevant to the police. No one would believe a four year old anyway.

After his parents funeral, he and his brother had been carted into a foster family, somewhere in Kansas. Clint only remembered the extreme heat of the place, and spending a lot of time outside. He made a small target out of some old cardboard, and practiced using his bow. The foster parents in question worked every day, but had not hired a babysitter or nanny, just letting the boys roam the neighbourhood. When Barney was caught stealing money from their pretend mom's purse, they left.

They were transfered from house to house, foster family to foster family for two long years. One particularly bad one, was a middle aged man who beat the children on their first day there. Clint still had the scars of the bat he had used. That particular caregiver was the first person, but not the last to break Clint's nose. Everytime he screamed, he was hit again. Eventually he learnt to stop screaming. Not easy when you are five, but one did what one had to do. The only possession Clint remembered taking with him from place to place was his plastic bow and arrow, his last present from his parents.

Barney had been eight, and Clint, almost seven, when their last foster family had taken them to see Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. Clint had been mesmerised by the show. He watched as Trickshot, a master archer shot a bullseye from a horse, while jumping on a trampoline and while rolling behind a barrel. By the end of the day, he had made up his mind. He was going to run away to the circus.

Was it horrible to dream when you were a child? Usually a parent was there to control the dreaming, to stop it from becoming reality. But his then foster family was not very attentive of the two Barton boys. They had run that night, hiding themselves as the circus was loaded onto the train and left for Ohio.

Everywhere people were bustling from place to place, each with a specific job to do. Clint and Barney had watched in awe, Clint still clinging to his plastic bow and arrows. That was when Trickshot walked by

« Trickshot! Mr. Trickshot! » Clint had shouted, full of enthousiam, despite his brother telling him to shut it. He had run up to his new idol, and began professing his love and desire to be as good an archer as Trickshot was. His hero had stayed utterly silent. As Clint finished, out of breath, Trickshot had reached out and smacked the small boy. Reeling, Clint saw stars. And Trickshot leant in, grabbed Clint's plastic bow and snapped it clean in half. Clint had been on the verge of tears. His one true possession was broken! Trickshot had walked away, and Barney only said « I told you so » before striding off as well.

After the tears had dried that first day, Clint had climbed into the support beams of the tent to watch the show. His eyes, they were so good that even at a distance like that, he did not miss a beat of the action. He still wanted to be an archer. As good as Trickshot. Only now it seemed that much harder. Barney said something about seeing the circus master. That night, the two boys had shared a bunk on the train. Barney told him the circus master, Carson, said they could stay. That he needed a small pair of hands to do some dirty work. Barney did not know what the work was then.

The first month at the circus was miserable for Clint. Barney was running favors for Carson, and Clint had nothing to do except watch Trickshot practice. It became something of an obsession. He would watch the middleaged man practice each day and then perform each night, from the rafters. He used every sneaking skill he had learnt playing hide and seek to stay out of sight and out of trouble. It did not always work though, and no matter who caught him, whether it was a showgirl, a trapeze artist or an animal handler, they always gave him a beating. It only pushed him to be even more discreet. After three weeks in the circus, he planned a careful steal of one bow and five arrows from Trickshot's stash. From then on, Clint watched Trickshot, and then practiced on his own, in a hidden area of camp each day.

This was no plastic bow that was easy to pull. This bow was a lot harder to even draw. It had taken him three long days to build up the strength to make one shot. The bow was much too big for him, but he practiced with it none the less. He did push ups like he had seen Trickshot do. He lifted heavy logs and stones to get stronger. For a seven year old, the adult recurve was a challenge, but Cling being the determined child he was, took it on. Within a fortnight, Clint could shoot five arrows in a row, and hit the target every time. His musculature and endurance had only risen from there.

It had taken several months before Clint realised what Barney was doing. Besides being the Ringmaster's lackey, he was a pickpocket. As the paying customers would watch the show, Barney would sneak in, unseen and unnoticed and steal change, cards, jewellery and anything else he could nab. Even with the keen eye he had, it had taken several months of watching before he had caught his brother in the act. Barney had immediately denied it. As they had grown older, they had gotten more distant.

Clint on the other hand, became something of a scapegoat to all the other carnies. If something when wrong, even if it had nothing to do with him, he received a hit or two. He learnt to accept it. Who would he complain to? His brother never protected him. Carson, who ran the circus as a drug dealer helped his clients, did not even acknowledge Clint's existance. So he remained stoically silent, as well as staying alone and away as much as possible. He kept his distance, keeping to the shadows and away from everyone, passing out of sight to avoid being hit. When he did get caught, which happened less and less over the years, the lesson he had learnt from the mean foster parent held, and he never screamed once. It had become his approach to anything and everything. Silence, indifference and distance. And it served him rather well. People started to think him a little dumb and people who thought you were dumb were much easier to fool.

Clint had spent eight months with the circus before Trickshot caught him practicing with the adult recuve he had stolen. He had beaten Clint black and blue that night, and Clint had very nearly missed the train out the next morning. But Trickshot had not taken the bow back. So Clint kept on practicing. At their very next stop, Trickshot spotted him again. Clint thought that he was about to be beaten again, and had almost run. But Trickshot had simply approached and corrected his footstance. Not saying a word, Trickshot oversaw an hour of Clint's practice, correcting with a push or a pull of a hand. Then he had left. Clint exhaled a sigh of relief. This pattern continued for six months, before Trickshot spoke his first words to Clint, who was now approaching his ninth birthday.

« You will perform tonight. » This had taken Clint aback. He had not wanted to. It was not why he had learnt to shoot. Why had he learnt to shoot? By now, he knew Trickshot's routine by heart. It didn't seem like he had been given any choice in the matter.

That night had been horrible. Shaking from head to toe, it was all he could do to hit the targets. The large audience that night did nothing to calm him. Even having his bow in his hand, his safety, his protector of a weapon, did not make him feel better. He missed the final shot of the act completely, a shot from on top of a ball. Trickshot beat him again that night, broken his nose (again), two ribs and ankle, and never showed his face at Clint's practices again.

His arms still sore, and his foot in a poorly made cast by a monkey trainer, Clint had taken exactly two days off before lifting his bow again. He practiced until his fingers bled and then practised more so callouses built up. Some would say at this point that it was the only thing that gave him comfort. It was true. His brother was all but non-existant. His hero had rejected him. And once Clint knew every trick better than Trickshot did, he knew he needed to find something new.

At eleven years old, Clint had mastered every trick his mentor (sort of) knew. He therefore sought out other skills to add to his own personal repertoire. He spent six months observing a tightrope walker who showed him how to balance perfectly, then learnt to shoot while standing on a tightrope thirty feet in the air. He spent another half year with a knife juggler who taught him to throw, juggle and use a knife. From then on, he always carried one with him and began adding knife fight exercises to his practicing routine. He even got the opera singer to give him tips on acting. He watched a contortionist to learn flexibility and stretching excercises. He stalked two gymnasts, learning flips, jumps and tumbles from them. He watched a lion tamer move so as to not scare off a dangerous beast. When they passed through a forested area, he even tried hunting, shooting small animals with his circus arrows, and having a small feast on his own. Some might say he was well on his way to becoming a master circus artist. Clint thought he was on his way nowhere.

In that time, oberserving everyone in the circus, skill or no skill, Clint had learnt to depend on all his senses. He used his eyes of course. But also his ears. He learnt every secret of each person. The person they secretly loved. The stash of liquor hidden under the third car. The child one lover had hidden from the other. He had deeply mistrusted everyone since then. Everyone had something to hide. Everyone had something to lose. When someone spoke to you, you never knew if they were lying or telling the truth.

While Clint had spent his years learning and practicing various circus tricks and abilities, Barney had earned a name for himself in all things money. There were rumors he was the gigolo to the dancers and the liontamer alike. And that he would have sold his own brother if someone had wanted to buy him. No one really did, until Clint turned fourteen.

After seven years travelling from one end of the continent to the other, the Ringmaster had taken notice that Barney, his useful weasel had a younger brother, that had learnt just about all there was to learn. He insisted on trying Clint out again in front of an audience. Clint hated the idea, the memory of his first escapade on stage still haunting him. But Carson was not deterred. Clint performed that night in what became his usual fashion; without expression or emotion. The ringmaster, while pleased, decided to give Clint's act several showgirls to entertain the crowd and detract from Clint's sour visage.

From then on, Clint had been part of the circus, with his own nickname to match; Hawkeye. Carson boasted that he was the best archer in the world. Clint knew it was a ploy to get more people to come see the show. People loved freaks. So his life had continued. Clint never saw a penny of his profits. He knew that his brother was probably claiming it all and shoving it down one drain or another.

Hitting puberty had been an experience for Clint. His arms, already quite musclar from the never ending practice, were suddenly aided by a dose of testosterone. His first girl had been one of the showgirls of his act. She had been pretty enough, but Clint did not trust her. He knew all the dirty secrets of the circus, including that this particular showgirl screwed everyone with a penis. So, he had let her fuck him and never looked at her again. He kept his walls up. He had been building them for so long, he didn't bother taking them down for anyone. Not even his brother.

How they had changed as they had grown. Two different paths to follow both leading away from each other, but that had started in the exact same place. He and his brother didn't even look alike anymore. As children they had both had blond hair, and althought Barney's eyes were sky blue instead of grey, they had had the same square faces, and matching grins. Now only Barney wore a grin. He dyed his hair blonder when it had begun to go brown, whereas Clint had let it become a dark dirty blond. Clint's eyes stayed their steel grey color, while Barney wore colors that made his eyes bluer. Barney hardly ever did any physical activity (unless it was screwing someone over) and had the thin, scrawny frame to match, whereas Clint's constant training had earned him a stocky stance with broader shoulders. No one really thought, looking at them, that they were siblings. Clint hardly believed it himself.

And that was Clint's life. He practised, he shot, he slept with his bow. He occasionally helped his brother out of a tight spot, if only out of something to do. He sometimes hooked up with a performer, or a trainer, out of the same reasons. The circus moved around the country and Clint followed it. He was fifteen and there was nothing else he would ever know. Or so he thought.

Barney had never been a real brother. He had never been protective, or helpful, and other than running away from the foster home, Clint had not feel anything anymore towards the man who shared his blood. But still this was over stepping.

Clint stared as his brother held out the newborn baby, still slick with blood, still turning pink in the light from the streetlamp. It wasn't wailing, in fact, it was simply staring up at the night sky. Its umbilical cord, cut, but not tied, was sticking out of the towel it was wrapped in. It was not how Clint had imagined a baby.

« Please get rid of it. While she's sleeping. » Barney asked, his eyes worried and begging.

They were in Colorado. The mountains surrounding them made Clint feel ever so slightly like he was being watched. The starry sky above them was bright and cheerful, despite the somber nature of the conversation they were having.

Clint just looked at the helpless being. Snuggled in a rag of a blanket, he thought very carefully about it all. Barney had gotten the acrobat pregnant without meaning to, and he had tried to leave her, but in a circus, everyone knew everyone and she had clung to him, as if he might save her. For nine months, the charade had continued and Clint watched as his brother 'break up' with the acrobat again and again as she grew fatter with their child. The girl, the same age as Clint, had still clung on to the dream, that she and Barney could be happy and have a house with a white picket fence. Clint had no doubt his brother had the funds to do it; but he also had no doubts his brother would never do such a selfless thing. It was not something Barney did, caring for others.

The child, the poor child, had been brought into the world, by a father that would not love him, and a mother who was completely delusional. Clint knew from experience just how much love Barney had for his blood. Not only that, but the acrobat, Chelsea, could not have enough money anywhere to care for him. Not on an acrobat in a circus salary, anyway. And Clint knew just how much money actually made it into the performers hands.

Clint heaved a sigh. He held out his hands and Barney placed the infant in them, before turning away without a second glance at his progeny. Clint sat amazed at how the baby fit into his large hands. He couldn't keep it. There was no way a future could be had by the tiny creature now falling asleep in Clint's hands. No one left to care for him.

It struck Clint then that he was an uncle. And that it was in his power to save this child from the hard life he knew.

Walking carefully, so as to not wake the child up, Clint thought about how to dispose of the baby. He could shoot it with an arrow. He could suffocate it in one of the circus trucks. He could drown it in a water bucket, he was so tiny.

He decided on the second option, which seemed to be the least painful. He left the child asleep on the passenger seat of the car. Getting some hose line from behind the main tent, he fed the exhaust back into the truck's cab. And then, he started the engine.

Clint watched as the exhaust filled the air around the infant that was his nephew. Several minutes past, and the baby began to cough in his sleep. He waved his fists once. And then was still. Clint waited a little longer. He didn't know how he could not watch it. The baby deserved someone to regret that he was no longer there. He may not have lived long, but he still deserved that.

The stars winked at Clint as he removed the tiny corpse from the cab. Walking away from the parking lot, Clint felt his heart breaking. He wondered if it was normal, after killing someone. It is for the best, he told himself, you saved him from a terrible life. He repeated that mantra, until he reached the wooded area behind the main tent. He repeated it as he grabbed a shovel and began digging under a big spruce tree. He repeated it until he believed it.

He placed the blanket swaddled baby into the hole, before covering it. It was only when he finished, his muscles complaining and sweat covering his skin, that he realised his nephew did not have a name. He needed to mark the grave, it felt wrong without something to show that a child lay here before his life could have started. He took the largest, smoothest stone he could find and placed it on top of the freshly dug earth. He grabbed a sharp nail from the maintenance tent, and stared at the smooth stone. What was he to write? The child didn't have a name yet. Making up his mind, he knelt and scratched « Baby Barton » into the stone. It was the best he could do.

That was Clint's first time killing someone. Maybe not someone yet. But it might have been someone. Clint wondered then what was to become of him now.

Barney was in serious trouble. Clint had heard, with his fantastic talent for overhearing things, that an elephant tamer was about to do Barney in, because of a money affair. Something about Barney taking a share of the profits for his help feeding Daphne, the ancient elephant.

As soon as Barney found out there was a price on his head, he asked Clint for help. They were in North Carolina, another stop on the tour. It was fall, they were heading south to where it was warm.

« Please, Clint, your my brother. Don't let him get me. » Barney pleaded as Clint strode along the train. Clint did not say a word, just took his bow and strode back towards the animal car. Barney sighed, certain he was going to die, and left.

Despite being certain that he might actually get more money if his brother was killed, Clint could not in good concience let it happen. The elephant trainer, on the other hand, was a notorious fellow, who took exquist pleasure in beating the young people in the circus. Including Clint. Wtihin his first three years, Clint had received no less than fifty beatings at his hands. And so, it was decided. The circus would be short one elephant tamer that night.

It was as different from the baby as possible. This was not a helpless infant that he would try to kill as painlessly as possible. And in a way, Clint was glad. The amount of pain he had suffered at the evil man's hands made him relish planning his shot. There was no question of how. It would be with his trusted and familiar weapon.

He had placed a sharpened metal tip to his usual circus arrow, to pierce the skin better. He had planned his spot carefully from the top of the elephant car, using the massive size of the animal to hide him better in the rafters. And he had waited till the cover of night, to ease his escape. He had even planned a back up plan, a sharp knife hidden in his boot, ready to be used if, for whatever reason, he missed.

Scurrying on top of the train as slient as a shadow, Clint perched himself with a clean shot to the elephant's feeding trough. He pulled out his bow and chosen arrow and waited.

He waited for nearly an hour, before the tamer showed up. A rare grin appeared on the archer's face, as he saw the drunken state of his target.

He notched and drew. Aiming carefully, he waited until the tamer paused at the trough, filling it with a bag of feed. And he let the arrow fly. It lodged itself exactly where he had wanted it to; in the center of the tamer's back. Arching for the smallest second, a small yelp left his lips before he collapsed into the trough.

Clint swung down into the cart, and retreived his arrow. Daphne looked at him, and he swore she was smiling. He gave her a wink and then said in a clear voice

« Up » she obeyed the command without hesitation, lowering her trunk and lifting him onto her back, where he jumped out of the car and slid away into the night.

He heard the next day, that the coroner in the tiny town could not determine the weapon used to kill the tamer. Just to be safe, Clint had shot the arrow in question into a lake. But he could not help but smile slightly, knowing he had made the circus a better place.

Barney guessed that Clint had killed the tamer. He tried to talk to his brother about it, but got no information out of him. Clint, however, began to receive a small sum every week, placed in his quiver, and took that as gratitude from his brother. It wasn't much but it was something.

From then on, Clint would eliminate anyone who harmed others in the circus. It was his own personal form of justice, his way to make things better. Not necessarily for him, but for everyone. No one really knew who was responsible. The murders happened so far apart, and in so many different ways, never leaving a trace, that people were simply wary of the killer. Clint let everyone continue believing he was the slightly thick archer. No one suspected him as such.

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Please let me know what you think! That is why they have a review function...


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for those that have reviewed so far! The circus isn't a really nice place is it... I apologise in advance for the errors in the military protocols I am making. A special thanks to Wikipedia for helping out on a few bits a pieces!

Disclaimer: Marvel owns Hawkeye but Stan Lee pinky swore he'd give me a cameo in his next movie!

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Clinthad just turned eighteen when the trip to Washinton, DC had changed his life.

The circus set up in an arena, and Clint had some time to himself. Usually, they set up on the outskirts of a town, and he could find a spot behind a tent where no one would bother him. Cities were harder, but he could usually still find a spot that was quiet, and big enough to shoot for a while. This time, the only quiet spot he found was the dressing room, and a couple of giggling carnies going at it quickly forced him outside.

Sighing, he decided to walk. He was in Washington DC, and maybe there was a range, or something he could practice at. He had a hundred or so dollars in his sock from the shows he had done. Not much but it was something. So he set on his way, letting himself get lost in the scurrying streets.

He passed a mall, filled with people shopping and chatting. He past a school while children played at recess, screaming and laughing. He passed skyscrapers with men and women in suits working and walking like ants on a mission. He passed a war monument, depicting several soldiers charging forward. The bottom was littered with names.

Clint was not what you could call a moral person. But he tried. He tried to do what was right, no matter what it was. It was not always pleasant, but he liked to think it was still the right thing to do.

Why had he decided to walk? He hated thinking too much. He always dwelt on bad things. Bad things in his past, or his present, or in his future, things that had not yet happened, but that could easily come to pass. His death, or a bad injury, or getting caught killing someone. All these could change his tiny little world. He forced himself to observe everything around him that linger on the thoughts inside his head.

Just past the memorial was another office building. Only this one had people in uniform passing in and out, as well as people in suits. He walked faster, as if he had a giant sign on his forehead that said, 'I've killed people, and I might do it again soon.' The lead ticket changer had beaten two of the younger carnies this week, he was next on the list.

He kept going. He wandered the streets for most of the day, forcing himself to think of nothing other than observing the world around him, returning to the arena in time for the show that night. His bow waited for him, but it was really the only thing. Everyone else bustled, not paying him a second of attention. He slipped through the backstage area, not seen and not heard, but not cared for either.

After the show, Clint was having a little whiskey he had stolen from the acrobats cart in a niche he made for himself in the corner of the arena. They had scored a whole box full, he doubted it would be missed. He hope the next city would have a space for him to train. he took a small swig when he heard the loud familiar voices. Any other day he would have had the brains to stay away. But he recognied one of the voices at once. One was Barney's. He slowly rose from his nest, before peering around the corner at the arguing pair. He stifled a sigh when he saw it was Trickshot.

« Barney, if you don't give me my share, things could get ugly. Your brother is not the only person who can hit a mark. »

« You will get your share. I need to get Carson off my trail. And then the money is yours. »

Clint stiffened. This was not right.

« Good. I would hate to be forced out of my early retirement because of a slimeball like you. He made twice as much as I have in half the time. The little son of a bitch. »

Clint was suddenly aware that his breathing was not steady. His brother was swindling again, but Clint was certain that Carson knew nothing about it.

« Don't worry. I haven't been running this for six years to screw up now. »

Six years. Wait a second, that was as long as he had been performing. Suddenly Clint felt very cold. He knew exactly where the money was coming from, why Carson was suspicious and who the son of a bitch was. The money had been given to Barney, as Clint's 'guardian'. Carson had managed to notice (finally) that one of his star performers had never gotten the new bow, or fresh clothing, or maybe even a decent meal other than the ones the cooks made or he hunted for himself. The son of a bitch was Clint, and Trickshot was pissed at him. Well, at least that wasn't news. Ever since Clint's act had become a part of the circus, the man had been a jealous idiot.

Clint knew he needed to do something. But he couldn't kill his brother. Or his mentor.

« Good. I have a trip to California in the morning. If all goes well. »

Clint took a deep breath. He made up his mind. If he couldn't stop his brother he would turn him in. And Trickshot. He had to. He was legal now, the money was rightfully his, and it never made it into his hands. It was what was right.

He rounded the corner.

« Barney. What the hell are you doing. »

Barney whirled, but Clint felt his blood freeze. It wasn't just Barney and Trickshot. They had two other carnies. The master liontamer, a man well into his seventies who could whield a whip like no other. And a caretaker, the one in charge of the animal stalls. Barney stared at his brother. Clint knew that look. He was calculating something. Deep in his gut, Clint knew he was calculating Clint's value.

Trickshot on the other hand, did not hesitate. His bow was up and his arrow was aimed directly at Clint. The last swallowed hard when he realised he had not even brought his weapon with him.

He had not bargained for this. He might have been able to convince his brother to turn himself in. He could have beaten Trickshot without killing him. But now he was outnumbered and he knew it.

« He overheard us. » growled the tamer.

« Clint. Just go. » Barney looked as if he might just regret something. It was not a look Clint had seen on his brother's face before.

« I can't. » he said. He stood by his decision, regardless of the fact he couldn't win.

It was close who moved first. Trickshot's arrow grazed his knee as he dodged, but he was not quick enough to avoid the whip which caught him in the stomach as he tried to come up. He doubled over winded, when the caretaker wacked him on the head. He was on the ground, seeing stars.

« He knows. He's a liablity. » He heard Trickshot saying as he notched another arrow.

« Agreed. » He felt the steel toed boot of the caretaker connect with his ribs, and it was all he could do not to cry out as he felt them break. More hits came. More hits fell. He felt his arm break as a shoe stepped on it. He saw his brother's face stare down at him, blurry and doubling, but not intervening. Clint saw more than felt the arrow enter his calf. The hits kept raining down, until finally, mercifully, after he could no longer tell who was kicking him, blackness took over.

He woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. Pain was suffocating every muscle in his body and it was all he could do to open his eyes.

He had expected to be on the cold cement floor, in a pool of his own blood. He had expected to be in a ditch on the side of the freeway, where he might have been dumped. He did not expect to be in a bed. He did not expect to have someone shuffling near by. But it put him on edge right away. He tried to sit up but he found he couldn't move.

« Don't move too much. Might hur' more. » The gravelly voice said. He was sure it was not one he knew. He forced his eyes to focus on the white haired man handing him a glass.

« Relax. It's water. »

The old man helped tip the cup so Clint could drink.

« Where am I? He asked when he could finally talk.

« The janitor's closet. Two days. You're beat up pretty good. »

He felt like it. Slowly, he did a check of every limb. His left leg felt like it was on fire, but the arrow had clearly missed the important stuff. His right wrist felt more like it had been stuffed with needles. Everything else was sore, blue, and stiff. His head was bout ready to split. Still, he forced himself to lean up on his elbows. It was as far as he could go right now.

He was in a tiny janitor's closet. Along two walls were mops and brooms, as well as a large variety of cleaning supplies. He was suddenly aware of the smell of ammonia in the air. A desk occupied one corner, and the man was sitting on a strait back wooden chair. The only other thing in the room was the bed he was lying on. There wasn't even a window.

« The circus... »

« Left without ya. » The man said gruffly.

He slumped back on the stained pillow. The circus was gone. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one left, and he could barely walk.

His life just knew how to suck.

It took him three days before he was able to walk on his own again. The janitor, a man by the name of Ted, was kind, if distant. He fed Clint and gave him water, told him he could stay on the cot as long as he liked. But Clint left on the fourth day. He wasn't able to get very far. He made it as far as the back alley of the arena, and could wander no further. That night, he slept in the alley.

When he woke up, he registered two things. Cold and pain. Forcing himself to his feet, he took stock again.

He was alone, without a place to sleep, the hundred dollars in his sock that his brother had not found, and he had nothing else left in his life.

Trying to figure out what the hell to do, he was about to make it down the alley when something in the dumpster next to him caught his eye. Suddenly, a grin appeared on his broken, homeless, cold and painfilled face.

His bow was lying on top of the bags of garbage.

A week later, Clint was still on the streets of Washington DC. He scrounged what he could from dumpsters, only dipping into his small amount of cash once to purchase food.

He ducked into a free clinic, where a shaddy looking doctor patched him up a little bit better than Ted had. But other than that he stayed as far away from people as he could. He climbed up fire escapes, and slept on the rooftops, where he felt safest. He carried nothing with him other than his bow and two arrows. Using back alleys, the cover of darkness and every skill he had learnt in the circus, he passed unseen by just about everyone. His injuries still hurt a lot, especially when he ignored them to climb up a building, but were healing quickly enough.

It was by pure accident that he discovered the sewers. A night excursion that led to a contruction site, an open man hole and pure curiosity. He explored all night, making his way around, memorising tunnels and the way around. As soon as morning came, and he heard sounds of men approaching, he scarpered, back to the rooftops, but with the sewers in his mind if ever he needed an escape route.

He wondered what he was supposed to do now. Live out of a cardboard box with his trusty bow for the rest of his life. No. He needed something more. Clint Barton was a lot of sad, and pathetic things, but homeless was not one he wanted to stick with.

The first time he passed the poster, he blew it off. No way he could do it. It was hanging on a bus as it passed him. He watched the bus go by from a fire escape he had climbed and camouflaged on.

The second time, he imagined himself there trying to help. It was on the outside of a school, clearly trying to attract young people. The school was really just an old building, almost identical to the ones next to it apart from the sign across the top of the doorway. It was strange to see people his age, happy, smiling, laughing together. He wondered if he could have been one of them somehow, but it was too hard to grasp.

The third time, he paused and imagined going to the office to sign up. The sign was hanging crookedly in a bathroom of a department store he had snuck in to fantasy ended quickly when it led to him being arrested. Well, maybe in jail he might have a hot meal and a bed. It might be a place to start again. He wondered if he could stand being in a single tiny room for days on end and decided he would rather be kicked by his brother in the chest again.

The fourth time, he decided to give it a try. He was walking by the big military headquarters he had seen the day he had overheard his brother. It was hanging in the front window, portraying a young man in fatigues saluting on a blue sky backdrop. Hesitant, but determined not to live on the street any longer he made his way in, up to the front desk.

« How can I help you? » the girl at the front desk was wearing a cap, a uniform and, as soon as she looked at him, a concerned look. « Are you alright sir? » On her lapel was a nametag that read Prvt. N. Reed, in neat blue letters. He held her gaze as steadily as he could.

« Yeah. I'm fine. I'd like to join up. »

« No offense sir but you hardly look... »

« Please. » He asked as nicely as he could. She gave him a once over, and he saw her eyes fix on the muscles beneath his dirty shirt, before returning into his steel gaze. He felt himself being scanned and put up a wall, an expression of stone he had perfected years ago.

« One moment please. » She gestured to one of the hard plastic chairs next to the desk, before walking away briskly. He wondered for a moment if she was going to get security, as he sat down, ignoring the pain in his calf.

She hadn't. She had gotten a large man with a buzz cut and hard eyes. He too was in uniform. Clint, who liked to think he was not easily intimidated, was suddenly nervous.

« Norah seems to think you might have potential. Follow me. » He walked behind the recruitment officer. That is what Clint guess he was. It was a little odd being told what to do, but Clint found it quite comforting. He was not in charge of his actions, someone else was. He was led to a small room with an aluminum table, and asked to sit down. The man glared at him.

« So. Name? » The large man asked it harshly, straight to the point. Clint swallowed.

« Clinton Francis Barton. » He was amazed at himself, that he had not lied.

« Major Thomas Garfield. » The major stared at him some more, as if he was trying to see through the smelly teen in front of him and Clint had to say it might just be working.

« Age? »

« Eighteen. Sir. » The ring master had always like to be called sir. Maybe this guy would too.

« And what division would you like to join? » The man was still glaring, but his tone was almost mocking. Guess the polite thing wasn't really working.

« Any one. I don't really care which. » Air force, Army, Navy, Marines, any would do. He just wanted a way to make the world better. Something to do with his life that could maybe use the skills he already had.

« And why on earth would a runaway teen with a bad smell walk into the Army headquarters and ask to join our country's finest? »

Clint thought about that one. Of all the things he could have done, (and let's face it, his options were fairly limited) why on did he think he could be a soldier? For a single second he flashed back to his earliest memories.

Barney had gotten a plane. A little plastic one, and was flying it around the playroom, jumping on the couches and blowing his lips as he went. His father was laughing and his mother was taking a picture. Clint was watching. He could not have been very old. Maybe two or three. But he remember the plane. He remember the flying.

All his life, he had been fighting. When he had begun his vigilante routine in the circus, it had been to make a better place. He was used to fighting. War was the same thing, under different circumstances

« I want to fight for something. »

The major looked at him hard and long. Clint was already planning his next move, to try and get a job somewhere else, when the man in front of him spoke up.

« Follow me. » Clint got up, trying desperately not to trip over his own feet. Major Garfield led him down another hallway, past a large number of people rushing to and fro, some with papers and others just striding along. He stopped at a washroom, and turned to Clint.

« Medical exam on the other end. Get in line. And shower first. You smell like a sewer. »

The man left Clint standing there.

The shower felt like heaven. The medical exam was much less scary than Clint had thought. Two doctors took his height and weight as well as blood and pee. One looked into his eyes, another checked his ears. They pulled a huge machine and stepped out of the room, for a moment, telling him it was an x-ray. Finally, they gave him a clean shirt, and a pair of pants, before sitting him down in a small waiting room.

A long hour later, Major Garfield appeared again. His expression had changed. This time it was a little disbelieving.

« Barton? »

Clint stood up, trying to hide his wince.

« Son, you have twenty over eight vision acuity. Your hearing is above average. Muscle mass is determined as strong, low fat content. Currently malnourished and dehydrated. Four broken ribs and a broken wrist. Nose shows signs of previous breaks. Only record of a Clinton Barton is from a Kansas foster home, saying the boy ran away years back, and was never found after. What exactly is your story? »

Clint stared back and this time he felt nothing more than resigned.

« The truth? »

« All of it. » Clint took a deep breath.

« My parents died when I was four. I was put in foster homes until I was seven, and then ran away with the Carson's Carnival of Wonders. I learnt archery from one performer, and became an act in the show, under the name of Hawkeye. I was kick out of the circus a week and a half ago. »

Clint could not remember the last time he had spoken so much at once. The Major simply glanced him, before opening the file in his hand.

« Normally, we would send you to training right away if only because your vision scores are so high. You would make a great sniper based on those stats alone. However, I can't help but want to shed some light on a strange kid from nowhere, with not even a high school education, of which we have no record of since he was six years old, who shows up out of the blue and wants to be a soldier. Psych eval is next. We will base our decision on that. »

He turned to leave. Clint sat back down.

The psych evaluation turned out to be much more intimidating to Clint than the physical. Maybe because he knew he could ace the physical, even with his recovering injuries. Maybe because he didn't know if he was sane or not. Maybe it was just talking so much.

For an hour and a half, Clint answered all the questions about himself. And for almost every single one, he told the complete truth. What had made him run away from the foster home. Why had he joined the circus. Who did he interact with there. All up until the question of why he left. Clint thought very carefully before spinning his lie.

« I was kinda done with being a star. Its not something I wanted. So I left. » The best lies are in truth, he learnt, as the therapist in front of him made a small note. When asked how he acquired his injuries, he said he had been mugged a few days ago. And with that the interview was over.

Major Garfield was back within another hour, this time with an impressed look on his face.

« Congratulations. We're sending you to training tomorrow in San Antonio. Train leaves at 8am sharp. Don't be late. » Clint allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He was in.

* * *

Thank you for Reading! Please tell me what you think, I have no idea if this is worth continuing or not right now...


	3. Chapter 3

AN: THANK YOU to all who bothered to alert this!

Disclaimer: Marvel owns Hawkeye and all things comiky, I just like to play with his toys.

* * *

Clint was on the train for San Antonio the next morning, a large file in front of him, and three other guys with him. They were playing cards, but Clint sat against the window, watching the landscape fly past, reading his folder.

It was an itinerary, for the next ten weeks, with all sorts of training he had never even heard of. His mind was a total mix of excitement and nervousness. The folder also had room assignments for Private Clinton Barton. It made his heart leap a little when he read it.

He was doing something worthwhile.

Of course, his expression betrayed nothing of the kaleidoscope of emotions in him.

« Want to join? » the closest of his future teammates said, holding out the deck.

« What you playing? » he asked, scooting closer.

« Poker. » he said as he dealt. « You any good? »

« A little » Clint said with a smirk. He had learnt to play in the circus, and it took him about an hour and a half to clean out every one of the recruits. Andrew, Stan and Max were screaming by the end, and Clint cracked a real smile for the first time in a very long time.

Andrew was a little kid, just out of high school, from Washington. He had blond hair that put Marilyn Monroe to shame, and a mouth that never seemed to be closed. Compared to him, Clint was quite buff and big, even though they were about the same age. Clint was wary of him at first, but found himself warming to the kid slightly.

Stan on the other hand was a man in his mid twenties. He said he'd quit his job and McDonald's and wanted a change of pace, something new. That ended up being the army, after no one hired him in the whole state of DC. His brown hair was a frizzy mess and his brown eyes twinkled with hope.

Last but not least was Max. After his brother had died in the army, his parents had pushed him to join too. He didn't really want to, but he felt like he owed it to his brother. The poor boy's green eyes were filled with sadness as he told them about his brother, and how he had died in Afghanistan.

Clint said nothing. He didn't want anyone to know his past. It was not something happy or something that he could draw purpose from. It was filled with pain, loneliness and betrayal.

They got into San Antonio just before nightfall and another major was waiting for them. He escorted them to the base, told them to report at 0900 hours, in uniform in front of the flag, the next morning.

On each bed, two clean uniforms, one set of army training pants, three clean t-shirts and standard issue metal box, with each name and number stamped on it. He picked the bed farthest from the others, and carefully pulled out his bow. The others were teasing him, but he tuned them out, placing his bow in the box, stripping to his boxers and slipping into his bed. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He was the first one up the next day, awake at the crack of dawn. No one at the base was even stirring yet and he took the time to explore his new surroundings. The whole base was laid out in straight lines, completely different from the random, mix up way the circus was. He found the mess hall, the training field, complete with running track and weights, and the offices before he found the one thing he actually smiled at.

A range. A neat line of targets, half human shaped, half round, set up at varying distances from a line in the grass. A larger building nearby must have held weapons, but he did not care to even try his hand here. He ran back to the dorm, pulled out his bow and one of the two arrow he had been able to retrieve, before running back to the range. Carefully, he tried to draw the arrow, his cast was heavy and cumbersome, and his muscles had gone soft from his week of nothing but surviving.

Still, he lifted the bow and let the arrow fly. For the first time in a very long time he missed the bulls eye, the arrow lodging itself almost six inches above it. Determined, he strode up to the target, grabbed the arrow and tried again.

It took him nearly five shots before he managed to hit the bullseye. By then his arm was aching and his healing wrist was complaining big time.

It was barely seven, so he decided to put his bow away and hit the showers before anyone else was there. By the time he was done, dressed and ready to go, the others were only stirring. He made his way to the mess for breakfast, and enjoyed eating his first warm meal in a long while; eggs, bacon, toast, hashbrowns, as well as juice and coffee.

When nine am finally rolled around, the major from the previous night was striding up to them, yelling himself hoarse, getting them into neat lines.

Clint was already there. Keeping his eyes straight, he waited as the man walked down the line of young men. Andrew, Max and Stan were further down the line, and about thirty other men had joined. No women, he noticed. Less distractions, he thought to himself, as the major told them they were going on a run to warm up.

Three miles and a sweat soaked t-shirt later, Clint was thanking his stars that he had trained so hard at the circus. Max was half a mile behind, struggling to keep up, the others scattered back. He was leading the fitter ones, but even he was breathing hard when they got back to the training field.

Without giving them a break, the major launched into sit ups, push ups and jumping jacks. Clint felt his body being pushed and relished the feeling of his muscles working hard.

By lunch time, two of their number had already puked, a third had sprained an ankle and several more were mumbling about harsh treatment. Clint was not one of them. He felt probably as run down as the others, but he was used to keeping his mouth shut and sucking it up. His still healing injuries were screaming painfully, but he did the best he could, which still kept him near the top.

The afternoon was spent kicking their neurons rather than their bodies. They were lectured non stop about the basic techniques. Everything from formations to tactics, to international relations, to protocols. This was something Clint had never done; sitting in a classroom, being told things to memorise, and staying still for long periods of time. All completely new to him. He hated every second of it.

It was not the learning thing. His memory of gossip, tricks and people was put to much better use memorising strategies, protocols and information relating to his new career. No, it was the trying to sit still idea. Sitting in a class room, not moving more than his hand to write a note, that was a new test he had not been expecting. He made it his mission to master sitting still for long periods. He mastered his own reflexes, his body, until he could sit through a whole three hour class without moving a single eyebrow. He made his physicality as stony as his expressions, as his feelings.

Usually as the teacher droned on, he would find himself imagining being there, and finding a better way to solve the situation. Using the landscape details, or the strengths of the troup, whatever his mind came up with. As his body was still his mind was alight with activity, figuring things out in imaginary battles.

Evenings were more casual. Some of the recruits who had families left the base for the city. The others that stayed at the base like him, would spend the night in a variety of ways, most of which Clint did not participate in. They might crowd around the tiny common room to watch TV, or a movie, they might wander out into town to a pub. Clint joined into some of the sports. He had never played football before, but learnt very quickly, and was usually the first to be picked for teams when the occasion arose. Versatile and strong as he was, he could play just about any position, and which ever team he played on usually ended up winning. If he didn't join in the activities of the group, he usually did another quick run, just to stay ahead of the curve and stretch his muscles after having been sitting for so long, did whatever homework there was to be done, which was done by 10pm most days. A shower later, he was usually in bed, tuning out the other boys in the camp before nodding off.

The only other activity he participated in was poker, when it presented itself. He quickly earned himself a reputation as a great player, but the only real reason he played was to increase his funds. Something in the back of his mind, but always there, prepared made him plan to have a certain amount of money squirreled away. So what he won was put into the little bag in his locked trunk. It was not so much about bonding with the team as it was securing an escape, a way out, should he need one.

There was only one person on the base Clint might have considered a friend. He had never really had one and therefore was reluctant to call him that, but Fred was someone Clint actually enjoyed spending time with.

Clint struggled out of bed on the second morning of training, just as early as the first. His muscles ached, but he took his bow and headed down to the range, where he wisely decided on some stretches and warm ups before pulling a shot.

He heard someone behind him as he lined up his second shot. He immediately turned to look, keeping his bow straight and letting the arrow fly. He knew it had hit the target if only by the raised eyebrow the man gave. He was a tall, dark sort of soldier, his black eyes watching everything. At least a few years older than Clint, he gave off a somewhat youthful aura, despite the seriousness of his posture. He gave Clint a half smile, and said

« You probably shouldn't be shooting with that broken wrist » Clint did not remember this guy from the day before. He must not have been a rookie. His lean muscles showed even through the loose shirt and pants he had pulled on. His half smile was still in place as he pulled a gun out from its holster at his waist, a move that made Clint pull his last arrow, notch it and draw it in less time than it took the other guy to flick off the safety.

« Relax, kid. » He aimed down the range, as Clint lowered his bow slowly. The shot was loud, but straight. Clint's arrow at the end of the range, carefully imbedded into the heart of a target, was blown to smitherines as the bullet hit it. Clint's jaw dropped a little.

« Name is Fred. » He said, holding out a hand. Clint shook it nervously. He had never met anyone who could match his level of accuracy. He should have known he would not be the best here.

« Clint. » He answered.

« Last name Barton? » Clint's guard went up in a flash, but the tone was friendly, just a little curious.

« Yeah? »

« Your file said you had twenty over eight vision. Never met anyone that good before. » Another shot down the range.

« Not sure what that means. » Clint said. Why could he not just keep his mouth shut?

« Most people have twenty twenty. It means you can read letters at a distance of twenty feet the same size as most people. But some people see better than others. Twenty over eight... that is off the charts good. You can read at twenty feet what most people need to be at eight feet to see. Its probably a big part of why you are here. » His tone was friendly, and his words made Clint think.

He had never really thought about himself being better than others. He was better than most at archery, but everything else... he was just a normal kid, albeit run down and orphaned. He wondered if his vision acuity was really the only thing the army wanted from him.

« So, Clint. Where did you learn to shoot. Rookies don't get guns till week three. »

« I've never shot a gun » He said. Why the hell had he said that? Admitting a weakness was never something that was intelligent. What was making him trust Fred so much? he glanced over at the man firing down the range. What kind of magic was he working? Clint lifted his bow again and shot it at a fresh target, hitting the center of the forehead.

« Really? I look forward to seeing what you do with them. »

He and Fred continued to take turns shooting at targets, and Fred was kind enough not to explode Clint's last arrow. By the time the first people were stirring, they were both sitting in the mess having a quiet breakfast. Clint did not know why Fred was being nice, but it set him on edge. He was not used to people being nice. Still, it was a pleasant change.

It became a regular thing. Clint was usually joined in his morning shoot by Fred, who always had a smile, and a quick comment about his training. A joke about one of the stupid kids that thought they could be soldiers and left after the first week. Clint started to like the guy. The second week, he turned up with a package of new arrows, in celebration of Clint's cast coming off. Clint gave him a real smile there, as well as a sincere thanks.

As it turned out, Fred was the weapons training instructor. He came to the class segment of training first, teaching them all the parts of a gun, and then one week after that, he handed each new soldier a gun, and taught them each to fire.

When Clint's turn came, he swallowed his nervousness and took the cold metal. It seemed heavier than his bow, but it was significantly smaller. Fred gave him a wink, as he quickly walked through holding and aiming. And then stepped away.

Clint aimed and fired. To his surprise, the bullet landed a solid eight inches to the right where he had been aiming. He glared at it, then at Fred, who was smirking slightly.

« Aim where you want to bullet to go. » He said.

Frustration bubbling in his chest, he aimed again, and fired, obeying the instruction. He was rewarded. Even if he was certain the bullet would land off, he smiled slightly as it hit the bullseye.

« Nice, Barton. »

He fired three more shots, all of which landed in the smallest circle of the target. He learnt quick that aiming was different with a gun. For one thing, it went in a straight line. When the clip was empty, Fred put a hand on his shoulder and gave him another wink.

« Impressive. Best of the group, Barton. »

It was only then that Clint noticed the stunned faces of his teammates. And that made him smirk a little as he headed to the mess.

The next morning, he pulled his bow out and headed to the range as usual. He was a little later than usual, think about the stupid gun. Why did it not aim the same as a bow?

Fred had beaten him there, firing with precision into each target.

« Good morning. » He said with a smile, lowering his weapon.

« Hey. » Clint answered.

Clint notched his arrow and decided it was time for a little experiment. He tried aiming the same as he had the day before with a gun, before loosing the arrow. It swerved and landed a good six inches from the center of the target.

« Its called archer's paradox. I looked it up yesterday. » Fred said, a grin on his face. « Well, that and instinctive aiming. »

« What the hell are you talking about. »

« When you aim with a bow, you never aim directly at the target, because of something called spine. It has to do with the way an arrow flexes when it is released to come back towards the intended target. Because of that, you aim just off your target. »

« Well, yeah... »

« And you have been doing it so long, I'm guess it has become second nature. »

Clint thought hard about that. He hardly ever thought about aiming. He trusted his weapon and his skill so much, he could release the arrow without taking precious time to adjust each shot. But now that he really thought about it, he knew Fred was telling the truth. He had simply never had to think about such a thing. He hadn't even known there was a name for it, and he had been carrying a bow just about everywhere with him for the past thirteen years.

« That brings me to instinctive aiming. Don't worry about that one. I have it too. It's when you get so familiar with a firearm, or a bow, that you can fire without really aiming. Your subconscious does all the work for you. Your arms, eyes, ears and fingers know exactly what they have to do without you telling them. »

Clint stared at Fred, who still had a big grin on his face. If someone else had practiced as much with a bow as he had, they might develop that too. He never really had thought about the science behind his art. It was like finding a new door to a big room in a house you had lived in for years. It was staggering and a little disorienting.

« What am I supposed to do? »

« Relax. Practice with a gun too. If you want, I can give you some extra lessons. You have more potential with distance weapons than all the other rookies put together. I mean, some of them could not even hit the target at all. »

Clint could not help it. He chuckled. Stan had been a pretty big failure at everything they had tried so far.

« Sure. I'd like that. »

« Good. » Fred handed him the pistol, and Clint's chest contracted a little as he put down his bow in favor of the small piece of metal.

«Take it as a bit of pride. Your eyes are as good as an eagle. And that is what we are fighting for, sort of.»

Clint pause before taking his shot. His old nickname was prancing in his head. Hawkeye. The Hawk. Not the Eagle.

«No. I'm more of a hawk. » He said it softly but saw Fred smirk out of the corner of his eye, as he fired.

«An eagle is a type of hawk. » Clint glared at him. Fred cough quickly and kept going. «Hawk is a term used for a lot of bird predators, eagle included. There is a specific type, true hawks, but you can call just about anything that flies and kills a hawk.»

Clint aimed down the range and thought. He had never read up on hawks, and all he knew about them was from observation on his occasional hunts. He made a mental note to try and find some information on them. He didn't really know why he cared so much. It was a stupid bird, one that he had been nicknamed, nothing more than that. Just a stupid name. Still, other than his bow, it was the only thing he could say remained from his previous life.

It was something that he liked about Fred. If he didn't know something, he looked it up, he learnt about it, he researched it. His new friend was a veritable mine of random information.

It took him a total of five morning practices with Fred to master the pistol. It was strange in his hand at first, but he liked how quick it was. Also, he was utterly determined to master it as well as his bow.

Fred got special permission from the Major to practice with Clint on some bigger guns as well. Clint settled into the routine. He would warm up with his bow and arrows, until Fred joined him, with a gun to learn. There was the machine gun, which took longer than Fred was expecting. The shot gun, that Clint secretly despised, forcing himself to master it in record time. And the sniper rifle.

This one took a particularly long time, if only because there was a LOT of science behind it. He had to actually learn how to account for air density, and time of day in each shot. At least calculating wind speed was a little familiar. It only fueled him to work harder. When he hit the target, three inches from the bullseye, from half a mile out, Fred was practically peeing himself with excitement. Clint gave a single smile and lined up another shot. He took the longest to master that sniper rifle, but it was solely because it was so complicated. It made Clint relish it all the more.

Eight weeks into training, on a realatively dull Wednesday evening, Clint found most of the other recruits crowded around a binder, filled with drawings. He watched for a few seconds longer as comments were made and pages were turned, before he voiced his question.

"What's going on?"

"We're getting tattoos." Max said, a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Why?" Clint countered, level headed.

"You heard what the major said today. Its best to have a recognising feature other than your tags, in case they get taken or damaged. A tattoo is permanent and unique."

"Not if you're all getting one." Clint muttered, Under his breath, before turning to go for another run before bed.

That night, Clint could not sleep. He lay awake even when the snores of twenty other men filled the room. His thoughts were on the ink, the idea of a tattoo. He never bothered doing what everyone else did, but there was something definitely appealing about marking his own body. There were scars there already, and they were a kind of mark he had. But this would be a different mark. One he would make for himself, a scar of his own. Not because of someone else. When his thoughts turned to what he would get, and where, he felt a small smirk on his lips. He knew exactly what he would get.

So that weekend, he followed the rest of the group into San Antonio, to a small tattoo parlour. He waited while the others groaned and moaned through their procedures. When his turn came, he showed the artist the small silouette of a hawk in mid flight, its wings arched like a bow, and pointed to just over his right pec.

The artist smiled and got to work, disinfecting, tracing and finally tattooing the small bird the size of a quarter onto Clint's skin. It stung, but Clint didn't make a sound. He had had much worse, and this was his own scar to make. It hurt for a good week afterwards, but something in him was glad he had made the choice. His body was his tool, his weapon and he would treat it as such. With respect, with reverence and with care.

Ten weeks passed in record time for him. He had quickly proven himself better than good. The Major smiled at him every time he oversaw some of Clint's work, whether with a gun, a run or just physical training.

He knew what all this was leading towards and yet he was not ready when it arrived. It was an unexpected change from his old life, but Clint had not stayed in one place so long since his parents had died. It made him itch a little, with a need to move, something he always work out of him in the gym, running or lifting until he was so tired he could not move. When the end of training came, and he was told they had a week off, the rest of his teammates eagerly packing their bags while talking about home, Clint made his way to the Major's office with a request.

« Sir, I'd like to stay on base for the week. If that is possible. »

« Sure you don't want to head home? »

« I don't have a home to go to sir. » He said it with a trace of embarrassment.

« As long as you stay out of trouble. » The Major said, not looking up from his paper work.

When Fred found him the next morning at the range, he looked genuinely surprised.

« Not going home, Clint? »

« Don't have a home to go to. » He said, loosing his arrow with a bit more force than was necessary. The resounding thunk made it worth it though.

« Seriously? Where did you come from then? » He held out the pistol and Clint took it, loading, cocking and aiming in one swift, expert movement.

« The circus » He said just before he fired.

« Yeah right. Where really? »

« Seriously. Lived there since I was seven. Got kicked out and came pretty much straight here. »

« And you learnt to shoot like that in the circus. »

« It was my act. » He was uncomfortably aware that he was revealing way too much, and that this was the longest conversation he'd ever had with Fred that did not revolve around archery, or firearms.

« So no place to go? »

« Pretty much. » He said, letting a series of shots go that « killed » every one of the targets hanging on the back wall.

« Come on. » Fred said suddenly « We are going to get you a place to live. » Clint stared at him, trying to tell if he was joking or not. « You're not telling me you want to stay in the bunk house for the rest of your term? »

Clint smirked, and shook his head. He handed the gun back to Fred and followed him to the outer circle of the base, where a series of cookie cutter homes where lined up. Fred stopped and knocked on the very first one.

It was still very early, and Clint could not blame the middleaged lady that answered when she glared at them.

« Fred. »

« Charlotte, I want you to meet Clint, one of our newest graduate. » She gave him a once over and a solemn nod. Fred was talking again. « I was wondering if he could take the upper half of Anderson's old place, since the bottom is kinda... wrecked. »

She studied him, very carefully, before turning back into the house. Fred and a nervous Clint followed her in, and she held out a key.

« I'll push the paperwork through, but don't expect the house to be finished any time soon. » she said with a glare.

« I ship out in ten days. Thank you. » Clint said, taking the key from her, and following Fred out.

« What just happened? »

« Got you a place. Well, half a place really. Anderson... he had some issues. He kinda tore up the bottom floor. But the top floor is fine. Just enough for a bachelor like yourself. »

Fred lead the way down the street to a house just like the others, except with several windows missing, some tape across the front door and a distinctly abandoned look to it.

« Home sweet home » he said as he opened the door.

He wasn't kidding about the bottom being trashed. The kitchen was a mess of broken ceramic tiles and wool. The living room might have held a couch and a TV at some point, but now was a mess of stuffing and electrical circuit boards littered around. Fred led the way up the stairs, from which half of the first six steps was missing.

« Like I said. Issues. »

« What kind of issues, exactly? »

« Its classified. » he said, and Clint was struck with the solemn tone of his voice. Fred was usually friendly enough, but when he turned serious, no one dared crack a joke.

When they got to the top floor though, Clint had to admit it was alright. There were two bedrooms, and a quite nice bathroom, which still worked. One bedroom had a large bed, nightstand and dresser, but the other had been converted into an office space, with a desk, and filling cabinet.

It was perfect for him. Fred grinned at him again.

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Thanks again for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thank you to all who have followed this story. This is Clint's first mission!

Disclaimer: According to Wikipedia, I own Hawkeye. Heheheheh.

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Sitting on the plane feeling the vibrations from under the seat, Barton reflected on the strangeness of what he was about to do.

He was about to defend someone other than himself.

In thirteen years working as a carnie, he had only ever really fought for himself. He had never trusted anyone enough to want to fight for them. Now an entire country, and maybe even the whole world, was counting on him, to defend them. It filled him with a strange sense of pride.

As the plane touched down on the rough road that was apparently a run way as different as possible from the asphalt one they had departed from, Barton felt a twinge of trepidation in the pit of his stomach. Lost in the continent of Africa, in countries he had learnt the names of only weeks ago, himself and a group of other soldiers were in charge of caring for the civilians caught without food, supplies or water, rebuilding their community following a tornado.

Something did not feel completely right.

He spent the afternoon unloading the large plane with the thirty other men on the mission. He was the only rookie of the bunch, but he avoided most of the jibs with a few well chosen comments and his best stoic silences. The base prepared and set, he and two others were in charge of a run through the area, getting to the people of the villages nearby, and doing a count of the total amount needing rescue.

He, a doctor and a linguist made their way on the dirt road, to the nearest of the five villages. Barton kept his hand on his gun, the unease he had felt ever since the plane landed growing steadily in his stomach.

"Barton, relax you're going to give yourself an ulcer" the doctor, Lester said with a chuckle, noticing Clint's hard posture and hand position.

"Something doesn't feel right." he said in a terse voice.

"Its your first op. Just relax. You get trigger happy if you don't and trust me the last thing we need is a civilian casualty."

Clint tried his best to relax as they reached the first village. The ruins of six huts stood rather sadly in the dust. The linguist, Knot, called out in several different languages, before three faces made their appreance from behind one of the broken down huts. Three young boys, each came out slowly, and very cautiously. Knot quickly asked them a series of questions that Clint did not bother trying to follow. Finally the oldest boy answered, in a hushed whisper.

"Ask them if they or anyone else near here needs a doctor." Lester added quickly, holding up a medical bag with a large red cross on it.

The oldest pointed to one of the huts at the end of the semi circle, talking quietly in a language Clint could not understand. The straw walls were all on the ground in a mixed up pile. Knot stood up again, and looked at his two companions.

"He says there isn't anymore people here. There was where their family lived, but their mom was gone to get water when the incident happened and they can't find their baby sister." Lester did not wait for more information before making his way to the hut. Clint, made his way around the other houses, his eyes darting and taking everything in.

Several minutes later, he returned empty handed.

"Nothing. No baby or anything."

"Ok." Clint said. Something was gnawing at him, he felt like he was missing something big. He turned to Knot. "Tell the kids to make their way to base, and radio their arrival. Lets head to the next village."

The two older men nodded. Both looked a little surprised at his leadership, but neither called it into question. Knot turned to the boys and gave them some quick instructions. Clint watched as the oldest quickly took the two other's hands and led the way back to base.

The three soldiers made their way to the next village in silence. Clint felt the gnawing at his stomach growing with every step, but tried, for the sake of face, to ignore it. It was his first mission. He was nervous for nothing.

The second village was smaller than the first, only four ruined huts, but they found here a two small families. A mother and her infant, as well as another with a set of twins in each arm, came out as soon as they heard footsteps. Knot quickly calmed them, but the begging look in their eyes unsettled Clint even further. Lester set to work, quickly disinfecting and bandaging two open cuts, and Knot continued to discourse in a calming voice, Clint did a quick tour of the village. There was something he was missing. Something big. And it was staring him in the face he knew it.

With the mothers and their kids patched and making their way to the base, Clint and his companions made their way to the third and farthest village from the base. Clint's eyes never stopped moving, taking in every detail about the desert around them trying to figure out why the hell he was so stressed out.

Maybe you are not ready for this, a small voice in his head asked. No, another one answered. Clint Barton is many things, but not ready is not one of them.

As the three arrived at the third village, Clint took careful stock of each hut, examining them and trying to see what he was missing. There were no survivors here. Not a single person came out to Knot's calls. Lester was looking rather anxiously at Clint.

"Is something wrong?"

"Something is just not right. I can feel it."

"Just relax. Two more of these and we head back to camp." Lester answered as they began hiking a small hillock between them and the fourth village.

As they reached the top, Clint breathed a sigh at the sudden view. It was refreshing to have a bird's eye view. Not much in this place, but still.

That was when he finally realised it.

When he was ten years old, Carsons had followed a tornado through Kansas. Carson had been less than impressed with the idea, but the circus had gone through the devestated area for several days before finding a small city still untouched, and with money in their pockets. Clint had watched the scenery pass for days, and had even helped with the clean up in a few places they had stopped for the nights. The devestation had stuck with him, memories of foundations without houses and dug up trees surfacing now.

No tornado had passed through here. Of that, Clint was certain.

The houses had been knocked and pushed down, but not one was missing as such. The people, while having no where to go, stayed with their few possessions. And additional destruction had been carefully mapped on the dirt paths between the villages. Beyond those small places, the desert was untouched, bushes with their roots still in the ground, rocks with no dust on them.

It was so painfully obvious. He turn to his fellow soldiers, who had stopped as well to catch their breaths.

"There hasn't been a tornado." He said, his tone as serious as possible. Knot laughed.

"Of course there has! Look at this place."

"Exactly. Look at it. It has been distroyed methodically, between each of the villages. Beyond that..."

"A desert. A desert before a tornado and after have to look kinda the same." Knot said, with a dismissive wave. Lester looked less convinced. Worry was now written in his eyes.

"How would you know Barton?"

"I saw Kansas after a tornado. It didn't look like this."

Lester just nodded. Knot was already making his way down the hillock. Barton was thinking about radioing this in. Someone had to believe him. The tornado was a set up. He was sure of it.

The fourth villiage held a much larger number of people, all of whom seemed scared out of their wits. At least ten people, most of them children, came out when Knot called, but as far as Lester could see, no injuries as such. So Knot gave them directions to the base before they hit up the fifth and final village.

The hairs on the back of his neck were standing upright, now that he had figured it out. If only he had had some distance from the scene, he might had seen it right away. Silently cursing himself, and his senses hightened and listening for anything out of the ordinary, Clint followed the other two down the path to the last village.

Now that he knew the tornado was a hoax, his eyes noticed other things. The huts now were clearly bashed in, not blown in. Small fences that were probably meant to keep livestock were still in place, even if he was sure such small things would have been blown away in a small wind. And the people did not seem hurt, just very, very scared. Lester, at least also seemed to notice these things. As Knot was talking to the two survivors, both teenage girls from the last village, Lester whispered to Clint.

"I'll talk to the lieutenant, see if I can get the weather reports from the area. And do some more medical exams on these people. Something is not right."

Barton sighed with relief. At least Lester believed him. The last thing he wanted was an ambush on his first mission out.

As the three came back to base, the twilight was setting in, and Lester made a beeline for the leutenant's tent. Barton followed not sure of what might happen, but needing to know.

"Sir." Lester said upon entering. The lieutenant, a skinny man that still had presence looked up from the map. His eyes glared first at Lester and then at Clint, before speaking.

"Report."

"Five villages, twenty survivors. None of the huts are still up, but Barton may have uncovered something." At this, the leutenant turned another glare on his newest soldier. Clint stared back, determined.

"What might that be?"

"Sir, the devestation is not right. There has not been a tornado here." Lester said.

"Thank you, Private. Make your way to your quarters."

"But sir..."

"You are both dismissed."

Clint stared at the smaller man, trying to understand what the hell just happened. Lester nodded and started to make his way out of the tent. When he saw Clint not moving, he placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him out.

"What the hell?" Clint hissed, utterly bewildered that the lieutenant, his superior had ignored him and his discorvery so throughly.

"We did our duty. The rest is in his hands." Lest answered, resignation on his face.

"This could be an ambush."

"I know. Keep an eye out." Lester said, before making his way to the medical tent, where a line of survivors where standing waiting.

That night, Clint did not sleep. His ears heard every small sound the desert made, and still he strained to here more. Desperatly wishing he had been allowed to bring his bow, at least then he might have had something silent to do, at least a reassuring weapon in his hand to make him feel a little safer.

The sun came up and still his eyes had not closed. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe there had been a tornado here, it just looked different than the one in Kansas. His eyes still would not close. He still did not relax.

Clint spent the day either training with the other soldiers, or helping to rebuild a first set of huts for the survivors. The adults in the group had divided up the orphan children between them, and each pitched in to help. It might have made him feel good to see the rebuild going on, but Clint could still shake the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even Lester seemed to take the calm as a sign that Barton's nerves were getting the best of him.

That night, Barton, now exhausted from the lack of sleep, tried in vain to drift off. His mind would not shut down. His body was soaking with adrenaline and he could not calm down. Frusterated, he grabbed a shirt and made his way out of the tent, away from the snores of his fellow soldiers.

The night was very very quiet. The stars were very bright, with no light pollution anywhere to dim them. He stared up as he walked, trying to make out a few constellations.

That was when he heard the whistling.

The thud that followed filled him with dread. He reached down for the gun that was usually at his waist, before realising he was in nothing but sweats. The first explosion came from the far side of the base.

Suddenly the air was filled with heat, dust and debris. Clint picked himself up off the ground, coughing, and trying to think. On his feet, he ran to the highest point he could find, the top of the supplies truck. Swinging himself up, he took in the scene of the base.

Off to his right, fire was consuming the currently empty medical tent, as well as the mess. From straight in front, he could pick out several figures, armed in the dark, coming in and sweeping around the fire towards his left. On his left, the bunk tent was filled with soldiers groggily waking and stepping out into the line of fire of the attackers.

He could not tell who it was, but his mind was focused on two things and two things only. One. Get armed. Two. Get out. With as many people as he could.

Jumping off the supplies truck, he sprinted to the weapons tent. He knew it was dangerous, that it was probably the first place the enemy would go to distroy. But he was also acutely aware that without a weapon, he was useless.

Grabbing the first two weapons his hands fell on, he began running back to the bunk tent. Screams were piercing the air, and he could hear the roar of the fire, spreading wildly.

He rounded the tent and raised the first pistol. His aim stood true and he managed to take out three attackers, dressed in dark cammo, armed to the teeth. From beside him, he could hear his teammates being massacred in their beds.

Ducking back behind the tent, he ran along the side. If he could get to the back end, then maybe he could get inside without drawing too much attention to himself and add an element of surprise to his counter attack.

He never got the chance.

One moment he was running, the next he was flying. Clint hit the dirt with a painful thud, just managing to keep his grip on his weapons. He looked up to see the bunk tent in flames.

His mind was trying to figure out the next step. He needed to think! He became aware of his position, out in the open, and tried to push himself to his feet, to move under cover. His muscles screamed in pain, but obeyed and he scooted behind the wheels of a truck.

Nothing in basic training had covered this.

Taking several deep breaths to regain control and try to think of a way out of this, he heard several men moving towards him. Straining his ringing ears, he heard not a word of english, only a blabbering foreign tongue. Readying the guns in his hands, he raised to his feet.

Strange to think he had survived everything he had, only to die here. He wondered what death would be like. There was not a chance he was getting into heaven, that was for sure. Taking a steadying breath, he rounded the corner, aimed and fired.

The three men went down without a fight and Clint began to move through the camp. He need to find a way to contact help. The command tent!

Scurrying from cover to cover, killing four more attackers, he made his way to the command tent. Inside, he saw the body of the lieutenant, a hole in between his eyes. Scrambling for the comm, he yelled furiously.

"If anyone can hear me, this is Private Clint Barton, currently deployed in Rwanda, and we are in need of help big time!" Silence came out of the phone, and then a crackling voice.

"Confirm Private Barton, we are deploying troops to your area. ETA seven hours.

"Seven hours!? You realise they are killing the shit out of us now right?"

"Private Barton, we are..." the line went dead as he threw the phone to the floor.

Alright he was on his own for the next seven hours at least. Grabbing the gun off the lieutenant, he made his way back out of the tent. The fight seemed to have died down, and the attackers retreating. Explosions were still going off; he watched as the mess tent went up in flames, and the weapons tent followed. Slowly and carefully, sticking to the shadows as much as possible, Clint began his search for survivors.

An hour later, his search had turned up twenty five bodies, including the lieutenant, as well as fifteen dead refugees, who had come to the camp for safety. From the math, he knew there should be four more soldiers somewhere, but it was entirely possible that they had been captured, or killed somewhere his search had missed. None of the missing refugees could be found either, but Clint decided against spreading his search out beyond the base borders. He decided not to add the six dead attackers, men he did not recognise to the list.

Still, he prepared himself. Stocking up on both ammunition and guns, he also searched two of the untouched trucks, for a bit of food, and some bandages. Until that point, he had not bothered looking at his own injuries, but when he sat down in a small nest he made in the back of one truck, where he could have eyes around, and also cover, he allowed himself to take stock.

A large gash along his left bicep was stinging painfully, as well as another on his left leg. He cleaned and bandaged both up as best he could. Another cut on his head was a little harder, but the blood had stopped leaking from it so he assumed it was not deep. Other than that, he was still exhausted from two straight nights without any sleep, he was dehydrated, not having found water, and the heat of the day was starting to become a problem. He could compromise his view of the base in exchange for cover from the sun, but that seemed a very risky game to play.

By mid morning, Clint was thinking that joining the military was the stupidest thing he had ever done, including joining the circus. He had wanted to fight for something, wanted to make the world a better place, not be killed in a pile of corpses by an enemy he could not see and did not know. Everything about his situation made him bitter.

And yet, what would he do, if he survived this? Where else could he go?

As the heat began to really grow, he decided to do another round. Maybe some survivors had crawled their way out. It was an empty hope, but by his count, he still had about three hours before more troupes arrived.

He started by circling the camp. The perimeter was shattered in several places, and the bodies of a few of the guards posted told just how unawares they had been caught. He passed the huts they had helped build next (had it really only been twenty four hours ago?), now completely demolished by a bomb or two and littered with gun fire. There were a few blood trails, but no bodies, even as he poked through the rubble. He continued on his way, passing the command tent, remembering how he and Lester had told the lieutenant how they thought this was a set up. Lester. Clint still had not found his body. Sighing, he walked straight passed the command tent, relatively unscathed despite the body inside.

Next was the bunk tent. This was the worst by far, most of the team had been asleep during the attack. The charred remains of at least a dozen soldiers were still in their beds, or littered around them. It was hard to ID most of them, but Clint took the time to inspect all the dog tags, trying to determine if they were Lester. He was the only one who had believed Clint. It was horrible to think that he was dead. Or worse, captured.

He should have done more, Clint thought bitterly. He should have trusted his instincts, and pushed the lieutenant to post more guards, to put everyone on alert, to question the survivors. Their blood, the blood innocent, hardworking, peacekeeping men, that was all on his hands. Who knew how many others the insurgents had killed?

After turning over every corpse in what was left of the bunk tent, Clint made his way around the front of the compound. He had found Knot's body, still in his bed. The front walls were riddled with bullet holes, so many more than he cared to count. He continued until he reached the medical tent.

There was little left, other than some singed cloth and metal poles. The place had been hit the hardest. Clint wondered if it was because the enemy wanted to distroy any medical aid, as much as the soldiers themselves. Walking slowly, he made his way around the rubble, and poked at pieces here and there. It was a while before he stumbled onto the body.

Something that might once have been a gurney or an exam table had falled straight onto it, and protected it from most of the fire and the shrapnel. But that only made it easier to recognise the body of Lester. His eyes stared out at Clint, wide and unseeing, and if Clint had not had his years in the circus, he might just have thrown up. But he didn't. Instead, he closed Lester's eyes, stood and made his way back to his hideout, to wait rescue.

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Thanks for reading! leave a review please!


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